by John L. Monk
Bad enough she’d been following me everywhere. Now she wanted me to account for myself?
“All I know is he owns the shop,” I said.
“Did you know he has an arrest record?”
I stopped looking at the pictures and turned to her.
“Oh, now I have your attention? Yes, he’s been arrested, and he would have gone to prison if he hadn’t given up his accomplices. What do you think of that?”
What I thought was I needed to end all association with him before he turned me in, but I didn’t say that. I felt like such a fool—he knew my real name!
“Have you been selling this man stolen property, Mr. Mosley?”
Not like I could hide it anymore.
“Sure,” I said. “Yeah, I steal for a living. Are you happy now, knowing that?”
In all the time I’d known her, she’d been nothing but good to me, and what did she get in return? A broken heart. I felt like trash.
“Actually,” she said, her voice suspiciously chipper, “I’m not that bothered. I just wanted to hear you say it. The truth is, when you’ve raised as many children as I have you become inured to the small disappointments of life. Oh, incidentally, are you using an assumed name at that computer job of yours? There’s no record of a Beauregard Mosley ever working there.”
I squeezed the bridge of my nose, wondering what else the woman knew.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, collecting each of the photos and placing them back in the folder. “Now Bo, listen carefully to what I’m going to ask you.” She met me in a steady gaze. “Would you be interested in joining my little detective agency? You have unique skills. You’re smart, independent. All excellent qualities in a private detective.”
I laughed. “Me, a private eye? Isn’t that like being a cop?”
“Some of it involves investigating crimes the police have no time for. There’s even bodyguard work … though maybe not for you, with that famous temper of yours.”
I looked at her sharply. “I don’t have a temper.”
“I meant no offense,” Mrs. Swanson said with a patronizing smile. “At least consider the offer. Please? There are better ways to show people how smart you are. You don’t have to steal from them.”
“I’m not trying to show—”
“Are you a very good thief?” she said suddenly. “Do you crack safes and that sort of thing?”
Unbelievable…
Mrs. Swanson stared at me intently, waiting for an answer.
Wondering if I’d ever understand this strange millionaire heiress at the center of so much of my life, I said, “I like to think I’m good. Mostly I just rob from…”
“People like me?” she said in a small voice.
Instead of answering, I turned away … and then back when my eyes met the accusing stare of the Sheldon Baron Moring painting to my right.
“The wealthy, at any rate. I’d never rob someone like you. You’re too cute.”
Mrs. Swanson gave me a look that told me she wasn’t buying it.
“If you won’t join my agency, you’ll need this,” she said and handed me a business card that had been resting on the table the whole time.
I picked it up. It was for an attorney in Arlington, Virginia.
“Who’s Tom P. Harrington?”
“Someone older than you and less disappointing … lately. He lived here twenty years ago. He has agreed to take you on when you eventually get caught. Now, be a dear and put that in your wallet.”
Speechless, I did as I was told—anything to hurry it up so I could get the hell out of there. Somehow, I’d forgotten exactly who she was. How in the ninth grade she’d shown up at my school, walked into the gymnasium, and confronted Mr. Banks—a teacher everyone liked and who I got along with. Whatever she’d whispered in his ear that day had drained all the color from his face. A week later, we had a new gym teacher—Mr. Banks had been arrested. Apparently, he’d been tutoring advanced sex education to select students in his free time and word had somehow gotten out. To the newspapers. With blacked-out pictures.
After learning about her secret PI agency, it all made sense. Spooky sense.
I made to excuse myself.
“Not so fast,” she said. “I called you home for a very important reason.”
I had to laugh. “What the heck have we been talking about if not—” And then I saw her eyes well up with tears. “Mrs. Swanson, hey, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Bo,” she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes with a tissue. “It’s Anna. I think she’s in trouble.”
Chapter 4
When I was sixteen, a girl named Anna came to stay with us for the summer. The best anyone knew she was a runaway, way off the state’s radar and fresh from the street. I don’t know where Mrs. Swanson found her, but one day there she was at breakfast not making eye contact with anyone, all closed in on herself. Just looking at her, armored in tough clothes and thick eyeliner, scared the living hell out of me. She looked so angry. Like she wanted to murder me, or possibly one of the other kids—maybe kill the whole world.
I found her fascinating.
For about a year, I’d been following the careers of famous cat burglars. As part of my training, one of the things I did every night was sneak out my window and back through another one, chosen at random. Then I’d go to the kitchen for a midnight snack. But that night, who did I find waiting but the runaway herself, wearing a white nightgown and standing in the light of the open refrigerator like a Christmas tree angel. Thinking she was alone, the demon from the streets had vanished, replaced with something heartbreakingly familiar: another lost teen in a house of outcasts.
When she saw me, the mask returned, glaring me into silence as she pushed past to her room, but I found my voice. Having seen the reality, I’d lost my fear of the vision.
“You think you’re the only one around here who gets the munchies?” I said. “Come on, I know where Swanson keeps her emergency stash of Oreos.”
After that, it’s funny how easy it was to become her friend. At first, we kept it secret from the other kids. By day, Anna remained a mystery to everyone. At night, we’d meet and stay up talking about everything you could have an opinion about, though mostly about what we’d do when we finally left. She wanted to be a flight attendant and travel the world, while I wanted to be a world-class cat burglar and shatter all the records.
“Why would you want to steal anything?” she said. “Whatever you want, that old lady will probably just buy it for you.”
How little she knew of me.
“Cat burglars make their own destinies, thank you very much.”
I’m sure I threw her a puckish, superior smile—we cat burglars are great at those, too.
Cat burglars could do anything, and that was their allure. I’d cut my teeth on movies like The Doberman Gang and Breaking In and the original The Italian Job. These were films showing a special breed of people living outside society’s rules, surviving by wits and daring—an irresistible attraction for a kid adrift in a system that had made all my decisions for me.
Likely my dreams of being a thief would have remained harmless fantasies if I hadn’t been so desperate to prove myself to Anna. When she said I was all talk, I began stealing things from the other kids as proof of my skills. Stuff they didn’t need, like winter gloves or scarves, which I planned to put back just as soon as I made my point.
When she laughed at my meager prizes, I knew if I wanted her respect I’d have to think bigger.
***
My research said good burglars never robbed a place without casing it first. The place I chose was only a bike ride away. A big, modern-looking house on the upper Potomac waterfront, with pointy ends and low walls partitioning the landscape. Because the architect had caught the double curse of bad taste and faith in his fellow man, he’d run one of those walls underneath a second floor window.
By this hour, that window had been dark every night for the last week, and t
onight was no exception. Most of the windows were plate-glass and lightly tinted, but this one was about half the size of those. More importantly, it had a screen, and not even bad architects put screens on windows that don’t open.
A month or two before, I’d discovered the incredible utility of your common household butter knife: lightweight, strong, flexible, and best of all, flat. And when you weren’t breaking the law you could always use it to butter something. That night, I used it to remove the screen. Then I took my other tool—a sturdy flathead screwdriver—and pried the bottom frame away from the top the quarter-inch needed to clear the plastic guard. Sliding my knife in at an angle, I pried at the metal hook where it caught the ring on the inside frame, popping it free. After that, this being a newish house, I slid the window open silently.
No matter how quiet it was outside, I knew it’d be nothing compared to the silence within. Balancing on the wall and working my tools had me breathing louder than I liked, and I mentally added “exercise” to my training regimen.
Even at sixteen I was a little on the tall side, so the opening was a tight fit at the shoulders. The sharp aluminum ridges of the window frame bit into my side when I lowered my weight onto it. Getting inside without scrabbling my feet or banging my elbow or head or knocking anything off the sink beneath me was difficult. With most of my body braced above the sink, I brought my feet in and my knees down, then lifted one knee as I got my weight underneath me.
When I felt I was ready, I stepped down and into someone’s house without permission for the first time in my career.
Coming from the outside warmth into the tiled, air-conditioned bathroom felt like stepping into a cave. My breathing sounded impossibly loud, and I could hear my clothes rustling against my skin as I peered around with eyes not yet adjusted to the blackness within. I kicked each shoe off and nudged them close to the sink, figuring I’d move more quietly without them.
From outside the room, I heard a man cough, causing my heart to race and my vision to pulse with color. With the help of what light there was, I moved to the left, groping ahead of me. When my knuckle dinged the glass door of the shower, the pane clanged against the metal frame and echoed loudly around the tiled room. I took a chance and tugged the door to the right and was rewarded when it moved. Then I climbed in and lay down flat. It was a big shower, not like you’d find in most homes, so I had plenty of space. When the room flooded with light, I squeezed my eyes shut and fought off the urge to leap up and run away screaming.
The toilet seat went up, followed by the ordinary sounds that followed, then a flush. And then I almost did run away—I’d left my shoes out next to the sink! And with that light on … had my shoes been clean when I stepped on the sink? Did I close the window? Had there been curtains?
I heard the water run and turn off, then footsteps and the click of the switch as the light went out.
I don’t remember how long I lay there. Five minutes, ten? The whole time, I fluctuated between leaving through the front door or back through the window. When I got up, I decided on the window, but by the time I had my shoes on I felt safe again and reverted back to my original plan to steal something for Anna. Also, if I were being honest, I wanted to prove I was the guy I pretended to be while other teenagers used their parents in an endless pursuit of cars, video games, and trendy clothes.
Mrs. Swanson fed us and gave us a place to stay and that was more or less it. We were expected to play board games together or read, and television was allowed only on the weekends. I was a sixteen-year-old kid going to public school with kids who laughed at my no-name shoes and bagged lunches. For such a wealthy woman, Mrs. Swanson seemed clueless when it came to fashion or what was cool. My strategy was to pretend I didn’t care about Nikes or pizza day, while at the same time convincing myself anyone who did deserved neither.
Every thief justifies what they do. Some pretend at Robin Hood, stealing from the rich and trailing off at the end… Then there are those who think the insurance companies will pay for it all, or that wealthy people have so much they won’t notice. I was under no such illusions. I knew everything I took would be missed. But at the time, I fell into that category of thieves who hated people for being more fortunate.
Since then, I’ve mellowed some. Jealousy isn’t healthy, and it takes all the fun out of crime.
From outside the room, I heard another cough, higher pitched. A woman. Who were these people, anyway? I edged my way back to the tub and waited. When nobody came in, I crept to the entrance, crouched down, and peered out.
Directly across from me were two people on a bed, clearly visible in the orange glow of an alarm clock. Of all the rotten luck, I had to pick the one bathroom in the whole house guarded by the owners.
Stepping as softly as possible, I crept to the left around the bed and down a short hall toward an open door leading out. Along the way, a walk-in closet beckoned, but without light it could have been filled with gold bars and been just as useless to me. I’d brought my penlight, but all that’d do was wake someone. I needed to get away from this hacking and wheezing couple before I got caught.
A door to another room stood closed in front of me. To my right spread a wide area with a giant TV and furniture and stairs leading down. More to the right, the room connected to an open dining room and kitchen. Compared to a normal house, it was huge. Mrs. Swanson had once referred to people like this as the nouveau riche, with a hint of disapproval. Yet everything I’d seen so far was clean and hole-free, which had me wondering if maybe ol’ Mrs. Swanson wasn’t just a little bit jealous.
Then, because I’m not completely dense, I felt ashamed. We all knew she’d been married once, way back in the sixties. Holes in the walls and dented appliances were only a small part of her sacrifice when she took in us kids.
I shook my head. I had work to do, and pondering lofty feelings like shame and sacrifice was enough to send me out of there and off to church.
I crept to the kitchen, trying my best not to bang into anything in the unfamiliar layout. Sadly, I saw neither gold bars nor heaps of money stacked anywhere. I did see a purse, hooked by a strap on the back of a dining room chair, and then I felt like crap all over again. Stealing rare paintings or jewels from guarded vaults was one thing. Swiping a few bucks from some lady’s purse felt cheesy and low.
My sour mood lifted when I spied a small plastic box on the counter. It was painted silver and molded like a treasure chest. When I opened it and saw a number of small rings and a tangle of chains, I felt downright jubilant.
“Yes,” I whispered.
It would be only a few years until I engaged in wholesale robbery. At the time, I still had this idea I’d show up somewhere and steal one thing—something big and precious—and then leave. I was still a kid. I got the silly idea watching the Pink Panther.
The nicest ring in the box was a beautiful gold band with a ruby in it and a few small diamonds, so that’s the one I took. Then I closed the box and tiptoed down the stairs to the ground floor, taking care to walk only along the edges—a trick I’d learned at the mansion, with its creaky old steps.
Back then, I never wondered whether a house had an alarm system or not, figuring mostly banks had them. Still, a big front door like that made a lot of noise when opened, so I doubled back on the ground floor in search of another way out. I was in luck: these nouveau riche had an indoor pool even Mrs. Swanson could appreciate. The room smelled like chlorine and summertime fun. I tore my eyes away from the pool—it was something—then went to the door on the other side, unlocked it, and left.
***
By that time in our relationship, Anna and I had taken to meeting in Mrs. Swanson’s old library. Nobody ever went there and never during the wrong hours of the night, so we always had plenty of privacy. That night after the robbery, I remember how moody Anna had been, almost like the girl I’d met six months before.
“Wait till you see what I got you,” I said, hoping to cheer her up.
“What is i
t this time,” Anna said. “Old socks? Tell me they’re at least matching.”
I took a gamble. “Well, if you’re going to be like that, I won’t show you.”
“Fine by me,” she said in that buzz-off tone she did so well.
I asked her what was wrong. Rather than tell me, she switched her bitch switch to Off and acted interested in me again.
“Fine,” she said, smiling. “Come on, show me. I’m sorry, okay?”
I considered milking it to see how far she’d go to avoid whatever was eating at her, but I was too excited about my prize.
“Take a look at this,” I said, and held up the ruby ring for her to see.
At first she appeared confused—not the reaction I’d expected. In my mind, Anna should have already broken down in tears at the sheer loveliness of it. Anytime now, she’d swear how unworthy she was to wear so beautiful a ring, followed by our first kiss.
That’s right, I still hadn’t kissed her. She was seventeen and I was sixteen, and I found her strange and confusing in ways I couldn’t understand. Also, something about her said if I tried anything it would ruin what we had together, and no kiss was worth that. Not even a French kiss.
“Okay, Bo,” she said worriedly. “Where did you get that?”
I laughed, pirate-like. “Wait till you hear this.”
I recounted my tale, adding two more people to the mix and a German shepherd I had to befriend before it allowed me access to the rest of the house. The whole time, she stared at me without nodding or interrupting.
When I was done, Anna said, “You have to take it back.”
“What? You’re kidding, right?”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” she said, nearly yelling. She was big on cussing, one of the things I liked about her. “You can’t go around stealing things like that. You could go to jail! We could both go to jail. And trust me, jail’s not fun.”
